


Keep It True

by Mirkstrolls (angrennufuin)



Series: First Kiss(es) [2]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: F/M, Fantrolls, First Kiss, POV Second Person, THIS IS A FANTROLL THING, Underage Drinking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-24
Updated: 2019-09-24
Packaged: 2020-10-27 11:43:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,079
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20759819
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/angrennufuin/pseuds/Mirkstrolls
Summary: “Indeed.” Feeling incredibly daring, you place your hand over hers. How does Reggil make this look so easy? “But I fear mine eyes are trained upon beauties more terrestrial at the moment.”Written in 2016 for a series of first kiss drabbles. In this installment: ill-advised musician parties. Believing your own hype. Teenage Widsth being a dick.Title is from Kanye West's "Love Lockdown."





	Keep It True

**Widsth Orpheo**  
6.7 sweeps || 14.5 Earth years  
_A beach somewhere in Vayencherell_

So it is: salt breeze bitter on your back, a flickering bonfire warm on your cheeks, the stillness of a very early evening broken by a clatter of laughing voices.

There’s some dozen of you, picked out in russet light ‘gainst the starred and violet sky: apparently the “historical costume masque” in honor of Lord Haruspi’s upcoming Ascension required a full complement of equally historical musicians. Much to your disappointment, the party itself was unbelievably _dull: _half a hundred almost-adults standing stiffly in circles, making awkward conversation and requesting the few classical songs they knew. It stretched, agonizingly, through the day and into the wee hours of the following night, as ennui hung iron weights about your neck. With sundown came the expiration of the musicians’ contracts, and when a flautist named Reggil requistioned a few bottles in overtime payment from the open bar and suggested you all head down to the nearby beach, you and the rest readily agreed. 

Soon the bonfire was built, the bottles circulated, and performance woes were aired… particularly as regards this day’s party.

“If I had to play Für Elise _one more time_,” Anduun’s saying on your left, “I was about ready to kick some highblood ass, I’m telling you.”

“Greensleeves is worse, for me,” says Rmione. “It gets into your head and _stays there_, like–” They hum a few bars, starting at a normal tempo and spinning dizzily faster into kazoo-like disarray, their eyes comically wild all the while; everyone laughs.

You laugh too, a second later. You have never drunk whiskey before tonight, and intoxication makes the world wobble as though seen through distorting glass. The conversation goes on around you, but at a seeming distance of several light-sweeps. It is not an unpleasant experience! But the flame-heat is so much stronger now, and you are uncomfortably warm. You stand up, swaying a little. “Friends,” you say, knowing that your voice is louder than usual and yet powerless to moderate it. “Friends! I regret my leave-taking, but I fear I am ober– over– too hot.” There is more laughter, mostly kind in tone, and Rmione salutes you with their bottle. 

“Don’t fall down, little brother!” calls Reggil. It is, perhaps, for the best you are leaving, for his arm is already winding around Anduun’s shoulders, and Anduun is leaning into him. Two of the pipers are kissing in the shadows beyond the fire, and Rmione has somehow moved onto a violinist’s lap. They smirk at you, and you look away quickly, face growing warmer.

You are the youngest in this gathering (only one of the others is even within two sweeps of you) and though you have worked with many of them before, you’ve never noticed this level of, ah, intimacy. You wonder if the whiskey is to blame, or if perhaps this is just the natural result of aging. You wonder if Reggil and Anduun are serendipitous. You wonder if your own fated quadrants will meet you soon.

Away from the fire, the sea breezes chill you quickly. You burrow bare feet in the sand and shiver slightly. Your thoughts drift absently to the next-eldest musician here. She danced with you when you were both on break from playing, but you haven’t seen her since the party ended. ‘Tis possible she went home. ‘Twould be a shame if she did: tomorrow you leave for the wild north, and you would have liked to… well, say goodbye. 

And then, as if she heard your thoughts, as if ‘twas _predestined_ – “Widsth?” A hand on your arm, a sudden presence next to you, a pair of wide gray eyes staring into your own.

“Lady Giliel!” You beam at her. The diffused light from the bonfire glitters appealingly on her dainty row of fangs and outlines the soft curves of her shoulders and hips. Truly, she is elegant; truly, she is graceful. Certainly her shy smile ignites a fire in your breast that has nothing to do with alcoholic beverages. You think of the way your fellow musicians are pairing up behind you, and your heartbeat quickens. “How canst I be of service, milady?”

“Oh– well, call me Ondine, for starters!” A nervous little laugh escapes her, and her hand flexes on your arm.

“Ondine…” you muse, and direct a dazzling smile upon her. ‘Tis the smile that wins affection from even your most hard-hearted customers. “I wouldst treasure the honor of pronouncing such a lovely name.”

Her blush is as delicate and endearing as ou would expect. “Uh– would you want to come sit with me – I have a blanket– over there–” She half-turns away, pointing across the beach; it is a moment before you think to follow her gesture, and indeed you see a humble quilt upon the sand. “I just thought, you know, it might be cooler over there, you looked hot – uh! Like temperature, not like– oh, whatever.”

Cold wind still caresses your cheeks, but you are warm as though you yet stood ‘fore the fire. Smile widening, you extend an arm to her. “’Tis most thoughtful of thee, i’faith. Shall we hence, milady Ondine?”

The shadows make it difficult to see, but you think she blushes brighter as she rests her hand lightly on your forearm and allows you to guide her to the blanket. Violet light glitters on the waves where the first moon is beginning to rise. 

“Oh,” says Ondine, “I have, I brought, uh, yeah.” She uncaptchas one of the bottles from Reggil’s cache; this one is clear, you think, ‘tis hard to see. Her motions, when she drinks and then offers it to you, are awkward and jerky, as if she fears to bend her limbs much. Your mouth is opening – _truly, lady, I hadst meant to speak to thee_, you mean to say – when Ondine speaks. 

“The stars!” she says, the words akin in tone to her roughness with the bottle. Bemused at this strange apprehension, you wait patiently, and she continues soon enough: “I think they’re just gorgeous, don’t you, especially out here away from the cities…”

“’Tis so,” you agree. Above the sea, the stars swim in serene silence. 

“And we’ll be out there somenight, you know,” she babbles on. “Like Haruspi, at that party. I think that’s, uh, that’ll be cool.”

“Indeed.” Feeling incredibly daring, you place your hand over hers. How does Reggil make this look so easy? “But I fear mine eyes are trained upon beauties more terrestrial at the moment.”

“What do you– oh. Uh…” She stammers to a stop. Hark! How the hyacinths bloom in her face. But she is smiling, if even more shyly than usual. “Do you mean it?”

“I always mean what I say, milady Ondine.” ‘Tis rare that someone is so receptive to your attentions, and you delight that she is playing along. “And i’faith, tho’ they are wondrous, the stars are far above. But thou art here with me.”

And it is then, with the wind stirring your hair and the starlight glittering in her eyes, that you lean forward and kiss her.

‘Tis – well, ‘tis not exactly the stuff of ballads. Your fangs knock uncomfortably against hers. She turns her head so your noses won’t bump and the notion dislodges your spectacles – you fumble for them while trying not to pull away: she’ll surely be offended if you pull away. Instead, you wait for her to move back, though you sense she is doing the same – an uncomfortable moment passes before the two of you break apart.

You nearly put a hand to your aching fangs, but manage not to. “I apologize,” you say, trying for the easy charm of moments ago. But even your most winning smile feels untrue upon your face. “That was, ah, my first kiss.” 

She is blushing again. Has any troll blushed so readily as this one? “It’s okay,” she says, voice as stilted as you know your own must be, “it was mine, too.”

The fog from the whiskey is blurring your thoughts. You know you ought to say something flirtatious or complimentary, or affirm your matespritship with her. But you dare not open your mouth lest unwelcome truth, your constant companion, crawls out.

For you know what true love is meant to be, in general terms if not specific. You have read all the old ballads and plays, aye, and sung many of them yourself. And this was no grand and romantic moment, as a true love’s first kiss must be. Even _That was nice,_ blandest of blandishments, would be an untruth. More than anything, ‘twas clumsy and vaguely damp; the thought of a repeat experiment seems more like a chore than a pleasure. Ristan did not feel this way when she thought of her Yiseul, you know: surely _some_ translation would have said. And surely such a meager love would not inspire anyone to break the laws of clade and kinship, as did Rommeo and Juliet?

Plain as the printed page comes the revelation: Ondine is no serendipitous quadrant of yours. Your heart no longer warms nor quickens when you look at her, and the thought of the rest of your life at her side strikes you as inescapably tedious. Nowhere in the great lovesongs of your people do the bards speak of _tedium_ in a matesprit’s arms. ‘Tis a certain kind of relief, in fact! There’s no harm in feeling that a non-serendipitous kiss is inadequate; surely Ondine understands this as well. Besides, this way there will be no interruption in your scheduled journey.

You shake yourself from your reverie to see her looking at you still. “I believe that ‘tis something that one improves upon with practice,” you remark cheerfully.

“Uh.” Ondine is close enough that you see her throat move as she swallows. “Well, yeah, that’s, yeah, I’ve heard that too.”

There follows a pause, as Ondine watches you and you watch the stars.

“Should we–?” She moves forward again; you lean back. 

“No, I, ah, I believe we should head back.” Behind you, the fire has grown dim and the musicians are moving away. Has Rmione left with their violinist? If not, you may be able to beg a ride back to your encampment. 

When you look back at her, Ondine is still staring at you. O, confound this inebriation! With its cousin, exhaustion, it steals away the words you would use to charm her again. You summon a smile anyway, and raise her hand to your lips. “I thank thee, milady, for a pleasant evening, and an unforgettable experience. But now I must bid thee adieu.”

“Oh that’s–” She blinks. “What?”

Your words wish to slur together, so you enunciate carefully. “On the morrow, I shall depart for faraway lands, and I fear I know not when I shall return.”

“Oh. There is a look on her face that you cannot read in the slightest. “I’ll – I’ll message you, then? Do you have my trolltag?”

Why would she want to message you? “I have it, milady, but I go to the wilds – where, alas, there is little opportunity for communication.” You stand and offer your hand to help her up. “I shall not forget thee, though! And I hope that thou wilt meet thy fated partners soon, for thou doth deserve no less than the best.”

“Fated..?” She lets you pull her to her feet, but her expression has resolved into confusion and perhaps… dismay? All at once, her lack of comprehension frustrates you. You spy Rmione by the fire, alone and gathering their things; they must be leaving.

“Yes! Fated, serendiptious, thy true matesprit. Milady, I crave thy indulgence for hasting away so quickly, but i fear I will have no way to get back to my lusus if I do not catch yon compatriot of ours. Adieu, dear Ondine!” 

“Wait, but–”

“Farewell!” You kiss her hand again and hare off across the sand, weaving a little as your legs seem to be made of rubber. You hear Ondine call again, _Wait_, but you cannot. You barely catch up to Rmione as it is. I’truth, you mean to message her later, and bid a proper farewell, but the rest of the night is filled with striking camp and the following evening finds Euclid in a crisis of thwarted narcissism over a lost feather: the thought is quite driven from your mind.


End file.
